


before the sun could rise

by kathleenfergie



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - All Media Types, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:26:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathleenfergie/pseuds/kathleenfergie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The doors crashed open and she was paralyzed. Looking up at his masked face, Christine was both terrified and exhilarated. He talked to her of pain, said that she could not know the pain he did. If she wasn't so angry, she would have laughed and cried. How could he come here after all these years and claim that she was his? Maybe ten years ago, once, but never again. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	before the sun could rise

**Author's Note:**

> Alright kids, another LND fic because I can't help myself. It's like a carcrash, you think it's horrible but you can't look away. This is basically Christine's feelings during Beneath A Moonless Sky.

The doors crashed open and she was paralyzed. Looking up at his masked face, Christine was both terrified and exhilarated. She couldn't help fainting, however, her breathing had stopped from the shock of all of it. Coming to, seeing his hand stretched toward her, she flinched. She knew those hands. She knew how they could kill, maim, and destroy. Christine accused him of lying to her, about his death, about his intentions, and she saw hurt flash through his eyes, always open like a book she would read to Gustave. She had to keep her voice down, in fear of waking of her son.

And he talked to her of pain, said that she could not know the pain he did. If she wasn't so angry, she would have laughed and cried. Didn't know pain? When Mme. Giry had written to her, bringing news of his death, Christine had stayed in bed for days, sobbing for the most part. She had refused to tell Raoul why, but he probably knew. It had been when Gustave was only a baby, so he did not remember his mother's absence. It had felt as if a knife had sliced through her, twisting and turning forever.

How could he come here after all these years and claim that she was his? Maybe ten years ago, once, but never again. She couldn't do that to her family, she couldn't abandon them for a man who tried to keep her in a cage, only to sing. Christine hated that he could make her feel those things, those thoughts of betrayal. She also hated that he thought he could win her, like a prize. No, she was no longer his. The pivotal moment that happened ten years ago had changed everything. She shook her head, not wanting to think of the dark night all those years ago. It made her soul ache when she thought of it. She didn't know him now, too much time had passed.

And yet he still pressed on. Demanded that she not deny it. How could she, really?

With her back turned, she didn't notice how close he was until his arms were on her shoulders. She couldn't help it, and so she melted into his touch. It was familiar and she had craved it for so long. And then he was whispering into her ear, his husky voice filled with emotion. He spoke of that night, when the sky was void of any moon, and she remembered how dark it was. At the time, she couldn't see his face, but could feel his scars. She had felt him and cared for him, and he had returned it.

Christine broke away from his touch, frightened by her feelings, by his voice, by his essence. She found herself having to sit, to take in the situation. He continued to speak of that night, and so she did too. She told him of her feelings, how she had felt in that brief time they had let themselves have. Oh, how she had trembled in that cold darkness, unaware of what the room looked like, what his face was conveying, but had quaked at the sound of his voice, ringing deep in the dark.

She had touched his face, had looked with her heart and not her eyes, and she had seen beauty. She remembered how his heart had raced along with hers, her veins had sung arias she never heard before and his heart beat had sounded like music. Christine was caught up in herself, saying the memories out loud after such a long time of pushing them away. She had embraced him, kissed him, and yearned for his touch.

The sound of their breathing had calmed her that night, had given her strength as it went on. He had given up on his shyness and accepted her into his arms. He was as afraid of her as she was of him, and that night he had let go of that fear and touched her.

He got off the piano bench where he sat and slowly drifted toward her, kneeling so that his eyes were level with hers. She told him how she had felt his soul that night, how she had looked into it and saw things she could never dream of. She had looked into his heart and seen a pure being, not broken like his outside self. In turn, he had not looked at them as Christine and Erik, he had looked at themselves as a woman and a man, sharing something beautiful and natural.

He grasped her hand, pleading with his eyes to understand. He could not say those things now that he had said to her then in the dark, things they couldn't dare say in the light where faces could betray them. She tried to stand and run away, but he caught her, just like he had that night, and clutched her to him. Her hands were splayed against his lapels, clinging to them like they were life.

He touched her face, and she felt her own mask slipping.

Nothing had mattered that night, nothing but the two of them. Again and then again, he reminded her, her cheeks flushed at the thought. Their faces were so close that she almost thought they would kiss. Christine's heart sped at the thought, but when she lifted her hand to touch his mask, he turned away from her. She froze, her hands in the air, breathing heavily. She backed away from him as he spoke of his betrayal.

He said that he had been ashamed. He, ashamed? She was the one who gave herself to a man that was not her husband, on the night before her wedding, of all nights. He had been afraid to see her eyes, because he thought they would convey some shame as his did. So, he left. He had stood at the edge of the bed, watching her in the dark, and slipped out before the sun could rise and wake her. A whispered goodbye was all she received while she slept, and then he was gone.

 _I loved you! Yes, I loved you!_ She screamed at him, angry for making a choice that she wouldn't have made. Christine had been ready to run with him, to be his forever, and he had left her alone because he was afraid. When she woke that morning, she had been a whirlwind of emotions. And then she had gotten married, in a dull haze. She barely spoke, only uttering the words at the altar, and later in bed with Raoul.

He refused to turn and face her, and so she was left to yell at the back of his head, as he protested and tried to explain himself. Finally, he turned and grabbed her round the waist, bringing her close once more, as if holding onto her would make her forgive him. She didn't though, she would never forgive him, but she would never forget that night, and she would never regret it. It had changed her in many ways.

His head was nestled against her bosom and she wanted to sob. It felt as natural as it had all those years ago.

He withdrew himself and stood, forcing her to gaze up into his eyes.

He asked of now, and the connection was broken.

For them, she said, there was no now.


End file.
